Ice and Iron
by d17jasonvoorhees123
Summary: 1941. Germany stands poised to dominate Europe, with none able to oppose its armies. Queen Elsa, immortal and alone, broods in her palace, indifferent to the bloodshed on the continent. Until she receives a letter stamped with the Nazi eagle. Unless she assists the Axis conquest of Europe, Arendelle suffers. But there is also another incentive, one far more tempting and personal...
1. Prologue A Changed World

**A couple of months ago I wrote a short story about Elsa being bribed/threatened into assisting the Third Reich's war effort during WWII. I recently came back to it and decided it might be fun to expand on it a little.**

**Forgive me if I get a lot of historical info wrong, I'm no historian.**

**_As usual, I don't own Frozen and Disney does, etc._**

* * *

**_CLASSIFIED_**

**_ADDRESSED TO REICHSFÜHRER-SS HEINRICH HIMMLER_**

**_OPERATION FREYJA NOVEMBER 21_****_st_****_ 1941_**

_The first response to any of our letters arrived on this day at 8:28 AM in Berlin._

_I will personally travel to Arendelle within the week in order to follow up on our correspondence._

_We have watched the kingdom and its monarch closely for several years, Reichsführer. Said monarch has always remained isolationist in past conflicts. The only record of her taking any sort of interest in foreign affairs is some small measure of assistance lent by her to the Anglo-French alliance during the Crimean War, shortly before the demise of Grand Duchess Anna._

_Arendelle has neglected to take part in any conflicts, treaties, or internatiomal conferences since._

_For this reason, we were initially quite pessimistic about the prospects of brokering an alliance with the queen, despite our knowledge that you and the Führer have desired such a pact for quite some time._

_However, thanks to several fascinating discoveries made during the Arctic expeditions, the idea has been brought back into serious consideration._

_With a bit of time, I am all but certain I can persuade Arendelle's queen to see the rightness of our struggle._

_Heil Hitler._

* * *

Elsa had no part in the last war that engulfed the continent.

She simply hadn't cared. It hadn't been her business, none of her concern. The great powers would posture and roar and brag, but Arendelle would continue on as it always had, regardless of who came out on top of this bloody mess in the end.

Oh, they tested her resolve, certainly. They bullied and pushed her to join the conflict, kings and generals drooling at the thought of icy magic unleashed across the stagnated, trench-marred battlefields of northern France and Russia, bringing the war to a swift and decisive end.

She refused them all.

Rapunzel's great-grandson came himself, all dressed up in his royal uniform, ridiculous mustache freshly waxed, and that stupid spiked helmet the Germans were so fond of sitting proudly on his head.

He put on quite a show, reminding her constantly of the German and Arendellan monarchies' common lineage, and then of the brutal treatment the British had levied against her country during the Napoleonic wars more than a hundred years prior.

Wilhelm, of course, neglected to mention that the French had been then, and for a long time after, one of Arendelle's strongest allies.

In the end, the Kaiser gave up. He could have pushed further, perhaps threatened military action, but they were after all related by blood, and so he returned to Berlin dejected but accepting of Elsa's refusal.

The war ended soon afterwards, with the combined French, British, and American forces crushing the German Empire, as well as their Austro-Hungarian allies.

The world was fundamentally changing.

The crowned heads of Europe no longer found themselves secure in and unshakeable from their positions of power, as they had for centuries.

Russia's Tsar and all his blood met their end in a dank cellar at the hands of revolutionaries.

Germany lay at the feet of an Austrian peasant.

An explosion of technological advancement caused the means and weapons of waging war to change faster than ever.

In a few short decades, the horses, sabers, and cannon that marked conflict for centuries and millennia were gone, replaced by iron cavalry and flying machines that rained fire from the sky.

Elsa holds the crisp white letter in her hands, running a thumb over the black Nazi eagle stamped onto the face of the envelope, a swastika gripped in its wicked talons.

She pauses for a moment, before crushing it in her fist, tossing it into a trash-bin with disgust.

Arendelle is still much the same as it was a century ago, during the time of the great winter.

Gas lamps have sprung up throughout the winding, crooked streets of the tiny kingdom, and a few of society's wealthier elements are able to afford automobiles, but by and large it is still a mostly agrarian society, stubbornly refusing to march into the 20th century along with the rest of Europe.

Elsa wiggles her fingers, willing a puff of snow to burst into existence, before just as quickly fading away again.

Were it not for her abilities, Arendelle would have been conquered by some hungry invader long ago.

Arendelle is surrounded on three sides by Nazi occupied Norway, and by the North Sea in the west.

The letter had requested that she receive German ambassadors in her capital, so that "we may know precisely where Arendelle stands in the current state of European affairs".

The Kaiser backed down thanks to blood ties and a sense of respect between monarchs.

Germany's new masters would not be bound by such loyalties, and the letter had made that clear, if not in so many words; if she refused their "invitation" to meet, German forces would pour over the Arendellan-Norwegian border and tear her kingdom to pieces.

Of course, with her power, she could crush the Heer, and strike the Luftwaffe out of the sky.

But even she had her limits. She could destroy the Reich's military forces, but only at the cost of thousands of innocent lives, and the absolute destruction of her nation and whatever primitive infrastructure it had.

Outside of Elsa's palace, ships rocked gently in the placid blue waters of Arendelle's harbor. Men hurried to and from work, and children played in the streets.

Despite her personal reservations about intervention in foreign affairs, she could not condemn her people to the horrors a military invasion would bring.

Ice begins to creep along the far wall of her chambers, the temperature steadily dropping, as she wrings her hands and struggles to control her breathing.

Elsa recalls her sister's comforting arms around her, whenever the stresses of ruling became too much, soothing words, reassurances that it was okay, and that she was loved.

_Oh Anna…why did you have to leave me so soon?_

Defeated, the one hundred and sixteen year old Queen dips her ancient quill into a well of ink, and begins to write.

"To Adolf Hitler, Führer and Chancellor of the German Reich…"

* * *

**There's another story on here with a similar idea called "Elsa vs World War II". That story was actually inspired by my original post, so I'm pretty sure this doesn't count as plagiarism of that one.**


	2. Alliance

**So, this chapter is basically a rewrite of my original short story. After this I can finally get into some new stuff. Thanks to everyone who's shown interest already!**

**Please enjoy.**

* * *

_Arendelle, 1855_

Elsa gently presses a cooling palm to Anna's forehead, providing the princess with a much-needed respite from her burning fever.

The queen gently lifts a chilled cup of water to her sister's lips, running pale, slender fingers through the younger girl's hair.

"Try to sit up, love. It will make it easier to drink."

Anna takes a sip from the glass, trembling as she struggles to support herself on her elbows.

She sputters and coughs as the water goes down, eliciting a worried sigh from Elsa.

"You don't have to stay here with me all day…I'm sure you have important queen…stuff to do."

Elsa gives a mirthless smile.

"Nothing's more important than you, okay?"

The princess gulps down a bit more, swallowing easier this time.

"If you say so."

"I do."

Elsa plants a light kiss on her sister's cheek.

"Hey! Hey! You don't want to get sick, do you?"

"Calm down. I don't get sick. Just get better okay? I'll go get you some more water."

On her way out of the bedroom, Elsa stops at a mirror, gazing at the youthful blonde staring back from within.

She takes a moment to examine the pale skin of her face for any wrinkle, any sign that ten years have passed since the great winter.

She finds nothing.

Grimacing, she slips away downstairs to the royal kitchen.

* * *

_1941_

Obersturmbannführer Dieter Kaufmann steps onto the ancient docks of Arendelle harbor, the aging wood creaking under his polished jackboots.

Above him, grey storm clouds roll and growl, occasionally tossing down a bolt of lightning over the snow-capped mountains in the distance.

This kingdom, tiny as it is, is packed with legends and folk-tales that have trickled down to mainland Europe from the north for centuries.

Travelers returned from the frozen north would tell in taverns of horrid monsters out of old Viking legend that nested in the untamed wilderness, or claim they had seen those fabled apparitions ride across the moonless sky on the night of the Wild Hunt.

As Dieter scans the cramped, yet bustling little port city and its picturesque, quintessentially northern surroundings, it is easy to see how so many fantastic stories could spring from this place.

Arendelle is truly a nation lost in time, the horse-drawn wagons that line crooked dirt roads and the simple dress of its people evocative of the days of Frederick the Great.

In the distance, framed by the lush green slopes of the Scandinavian mountains, and the cool blue waters of the fjord below, the royal palace rises majestically towards the stormy sky, purple and green banners fluttering from the heights of its jagged, towering spires.

Like something out of a fairytale.

The German adjusts his officer's cap, making certain the grinning skull and party eagle sewn there are aligned correctly.

_I wonder if these people even know there is a war going on?_

* * *

In a dale not far from Arendelle, an oasis of greenery and warmth among a sea of frost, a pair of old, tired eyes slide open.

The troll known as Pabbie uncurls from his camouflaged state in the form of a stone, breathing in deeply, taking in the world once more.

Pabbie looks towards Arendelle, his ornate headwear and resplendent robes feeling for the first time in forever like an unwanted weight rather than a symbol of honor and pride.

He is nearly 1200 years old now, born in what the humans would call the seven-hundredth and seventy-eighth year after the birth of their god.

Since he abetted the rise of Ivar Scylding, first king of Arendelle, some 1100 years ago, he has been the royal family's closes adviser and confident, as well as their best kept secret.

The old Shaman has grown used to visitations from worried kings and queens, and wide-eyed princes and princesses. They have, for most of his days on earth, been the highlights of his life. Imparting his centuries of wisdom onto those who desperately need it has always been his greatest joy.

But it has been a long, long time since Arendelle's queen has come to see him.

Behind him, his tribe sleeps soundly.

Pabbie closes his eyes, speaking to spirits, and deities even, whom he has not seen, nor spoken to in hundreds of years.

He does not know if they will answer. Perhaps they are dead, slain by the sword of obscurity, as their worshippers turned to other gods.

Perhaps they are done with his world, their dealings with Midgard finished.

But perhaps they are still there.

"There is…something evil here."

Only the wind responds.

"I fear for Arendelle. I fear for Elsa. I fear for the world."

He looks up to heaven with sad eyes, his hope for a response dwindling further with every second.

"Of all the armies that have marched on Arendelle, all the foreign rulers that have sought to claim it as their own…I have never felt a darkness quite like this."

The old troll closes his eyes, and sees visions of hulking metal beasts that spit flames, thick black smoke filling the skies, and a great black eagle, hungry and cruel, its jaws open to devour Europe and then all mankind.

"I can do no more."

The shaman slumps over in defeat.

* * *

Elsa's palace guard watches the foreign soldiers with a mixture of fear and contempt, Compared to the Germans, Arendelle's military is woefully out of date and ill-equipped, their uniforms and weaponry more suited for the Great War than the one raging now.

A round-faced young maid leads Dieter and his contingent of Waffen-SS men through the gloomy, cavernous interior of the great castle, stammering as she imparts to the royal guess her rudimentary knowledge of the palace and its history.

"A-and here is a portrait of King Eric II of Arendelle, the monarch who commissioned Prussian architects to built this c-"

She's cut off as Dieter reaches out a hand to run his fingers across the faded canvas.

"Oh! Don't touch that, it's very old and um…"

Her voice trails off as the Officer gives her a hard stare, granite eyes blazing.

"O…okay. Just, follow me this way to the library. That's where her majesty will uh…meet with you."

Two Waffen-SS men swing the grand library doors open, allowing the group inside.

Rows and rows of antiquated texts, some dating back a millennia or more, stretch away into eternity, and clouds of ancient dust linger in the airy room, illuminated by the morning sunlight streaming in through the great bay window overlooking Arendelle's harbor.

Dieter's soldiers take up position on either side of the massive doors.

"She should…she should be receiving you shortly", the girl stutters.

Giving a forced smile, and a nervous nod, she scurries away with shocking speed.

* * *

Elsa arrives a half hour later, heart pounding in her chest and an ever-deepening pit in her stomach.

Her light blonde hair is done up into a tight bun, the way it was on her coronation, all those years ago. She has elected to wear a simple black dress, augmented by some simple red rosemaling around the waist.

Black and scarlet; the two most imposing colours in her wardrobe.

Something to remind her visitors whose kingdom they are in, after all.

The young man with dark brown hair scrambles to his feet as Elsa enters the room, checking once more that his uniform is all in order, then offering the queen a smile and a short bow.

"Y…your majesty! It is uh…thank you for agreeing to this conference! My superiors will be delighted. You…you look beautiful!" he adds quickly.

"Thank you", she responds quietly.

"Well…where shall I begin?" he laughs nervously. He stands up straighter, swelling with pride as he introduces himself. "I am Obersturmbannführer Dieter Kaufmann, Okkulte Wissenschaften Division SS", he says in his slightly awkward Norwegian.

He pauses for a moment, his face falling a bit when his rank evidently fails to impress.

"You know", Elsa says, "You can speak German if you wish. I'm quite fluent."

"Wonderful!", Kaufmann responds, his cheer far more evident in his native tongue.

"Well", he continues, "one of the many things I want to do is alleviate any fears, and assure you that Germany does not want war with Arendelle. Quite the opposite in fact! I want us to reach an agreement that would be mutually beneficial to our countries."

"I don't involve myself in foreign affairs, Obersturmbannführer. Arendelle has nothing to gain from involving itself in your war, same as the last time."

Kaufmann wags his finger, smiling.

"On the contrary, your highness. Arendelle has everything to gain! You know, our peoples, the Nordic races, that is, share a very rich heritage, both in culture and blood. In the eyes of the National Socialist Party's top scientists, you and your kingdom are just as pure as any German. Arendelle's people would be just as entitled to settle in the eastern lands we plan to open for colonization. I have seen your kingdom, and, well…not that it isn't beautiful…but you cannot deny there is a serious need for modernization. Imagine, with Arendellan colonists in the General Government and in the Ukraine, would flow into your coffers. Your citizens would thank you!"

There is truth to what he says. Arendelle has been utterly outstripped by its neighbors in almost every capacity for decades. There is not a single tank or airplane in her military's arsenal. Not a single factory throughout the land.

Arendelle could not subsist this way forever.

But…she did not want Arendelle's future to be built on a mountain of corpses, its future written in blood and fire.

"I…I'm sorry, but I will have to reject your proposal. I don't think any agreement can be reached between our governments."

Kaufmann sighs.

"I said Germany does not wish to go to war with Arendelle, and that is true. However, oftentimes we are forced to courses of action we do not truly desire to take."

The temperature drops suddenly.

The German soldiers' heads dart about fearfully as ice begins to creep up the far wall of the library, crackling as it spreads across the window, obscuring the sunlight.

"Are you…threatening me? In my own home?"

Kaufmann steps back, a panicked expression on his face.

"I…I'm not! But any action taken by Germany's government would be out of my hands! Unless you acquiesce, I cannot guarantee the safety of you or your people."

Spears of ice glowing bright red jut from the walls now, and everyone's breathe save the queen's forms clouds of steam in the suddenly frozen air.

"You think I need you to guarantee my safety? You think I could not stop your armies?"

"But…how many of your subjects would die first?"

He speaks as though the thought pains him, but there is a darker undertone to his voice.

Elsa's face relaxes, and the ice slowly begins to withdraw, leaving carpet, wood, and stone soaked completely through in its wake.

The temperature rises.

She has already considered this. Her power to stop an invasion is inconsequential compared to the life that would be lost in the process. Hearing it from the mouth of another cements its truth.

"But", Kaufmann continues, visibly relaxed. "I didn't come all this way to frighten you into an alliance. I have…another incentive for you…this might sound a bit strange, but how much do you know about Norse myths?"

Elsa leans her head back, light blue eyes closed tight.

"One of the maids…she would read my sister and I a book of old stories when we were small. The stories of Odin, Tyr, Baldr. And I…"

She nearly mentions the trolls, but cuts herself short.

"Very fascinating stories, yes? I told you the name of my division, didn't I? Okkulte Wissenschaften?"

"Occult sciences?"

"It is a pet project of Reichsführer-SS Himmler. He has always found great meaning in ancient Teutonic and Norse myth. He-and I-believe there is far more to these fables than would be commonly believed. You were raised a Christian, Lutheran, of course."

"Yes", the queen responds, standing now.

That is true. Indeed, she is head of the Lutheran church in Arendelle. But she has met creatures out of pagan legends, her own powers are a testament that there are indeed strange things in heaven and earth.

How can she assign greater credence to Christian beliefs than those of her ancestors?

"Pity, Christianity is not a religion meant for our race. It is Judaic, as I am certain a learned woman such as yourself is aware. It was foisted upon our ancestors by fire and sword, at the cost of our old gods."

This is strange. As far as she knows, the Nazis were by and large Christians. Kaufmann's blasphemy is unexpected.

"When was it that your sister died?"

The question snaps Elsa out of her thoughts, eyes flashing as her head jerks upwards.

Behind the German, a great wall-portrait of Elsa and Princess Anna hangs, painted just months after the great thaw. They link arms, smiling sweetly towards the painter, content and happy with their lives.

With each other.

Elsa blinks back tears.

"It was…1855."

"Ah…you know, all of Europe knew of your close bond. It must have been tragic, losing her so young."

He turns around, admiring the portrait.

"She was beautiful."

"Yes. And she had the loveliest spirit."

It is like a dagger has been dragged across the barely healed scar on Elsa's heart.

Yearning, and the ache of loss come pouring out again.

"You know the story of Idunn's apples?"

"They kept the gods young forever."

"Indeed…the power over life and death. What if I could return your sister to you?"

As Anna might have said; Wait, what?

That was ridiculous. Impossible. A lie.

Of course, the idea of an immortal witch-queen was quite preposterous, too.

"I have gone on expeditions to Egypt, Greece, Palestine, India" Kaufmann exults. "I have seen many strange things. But what we found in the arctic trumps them all."

Elsa stands up straighter now, listening intently.

"Bolshevism is a cancer that threatens to destroy civilization. The Anglo-American and French empires are not much better. They would ruin and pervert every great achievement of our ancestors. Help us destroy these "powers". Help us save Europe. You have everything to gain. I can promise you wealth, peace, power and safety. I can promise to return Anna to you."

Elsa licks her lips, her mouth dry, head swimming.

She leans forward, towards her guests.

"I accept your offer."


	3. Fall of '41

**Sorry if the chronology here is a bit confusing. Elsa's visit to Anna's grave takes place the day after her meeting with Kaufmann, Roger's part of the story takes place during, and the final part is after, obviously.**

**And I've just realized that I subconsciously stole Kaufmann's name from a Captain America comic.**

**Ah well, it's already a fanfiction anyway.**

**And...I know rain during a grave visitation scene is really fucking cliche...but what can I say? I like rain.**

* * *

Elsa clutches the bundle of dryads to her chest, watching as their stalks droop under the weight of rainwater collecting on their petals. She runs a hand through her soaking wet platinum blonde hair, undone and falling over her shoulders in golden waves. The rain has died down from the monstrous storm that smothered the land throughout the previous night and all through the morning, reduced to a gentle shower that covers Arendelle in the rich smell of wet earth.

How fitting that it should rain today.

The flowers are stark-white dryads, always Anna's favorite blossom. She lays them down at the foot of her sister's gravestone, tears falling from her soft blue eyes and mingling with the morning shower.

"I brought you something, love", she says weakly. "Your favorites."

Elsa still talks to her sister here, after all these years. Some days she's almost desperate enough to expect a response.

She traces her finger over the inscriptions on the great marker.

_Princess and Grand Duchess Anna Scylding of Arendelle._

_1828-1855_

_At peace in the arms of God._

The arms of God.

Is that where Anna is?

Or is she somewhere else?

Or is she nowhere?

The thought of oblivion terrifies Elsa. A chill goes down her spine as she imagines being completely wiped from existence, everything you were and are in life erased. Like you'd never been born.

Is that what awaited mankind after death?

Countless times through the years she's held a dagger to her throat, or considered leaping from the highest spire in her castle, or more recently, held a pistol to her head.

Would she die?

She had no reason to believe she was anything more than functionally immortal. She still bled, still grunted in pain when she struck her leg on a table. In all likelihood a bullet to the head would end her just as easily as it would any other human.

But then what?

Would she be reunited with her sister again, or would she simply cease to be?

It was like a door, over which hangs a sign that reads; "Through here lies joy or ruin. Choose wisely."

Of course, there was no way to choose wisely. Until she passed through the door she could not know what lay beyond.

And that is why Queen Elsa still lives, in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and forty one.

She presses her forehead to the cold granite of the stone, sobbing uncontrollably, wet hair clinging to the rock.

"God…I miss you so much. I can't do this without you anymore…I…I can't. Please."

The pain never dulled as the years flew past, instead it just built up within, misery and loneliness devouring her from the inside.

The rain intensifies again, soaking Elsa to the bone and molding the dripping wet dress to the contours of her body.

"He said…" she mutters. "He said he could give you back to me. I don't know if to believe them or…or if I even have any choice. I don't know if I'm doing something wrong…or if I even care anymore. I just need you with me again."

The "Pact of Non-Aggression and Cooperation Between The Kingdom of Arendelle and The German Reich" had been signed hours after Elsa's initial meeting with Kaufmann. It promised that; "should either party come under threat from a foreign military, the other party shall surely intervene on behalf of the first with their own forces."

The idea of Arendelle's "military forces" intervening on behalf of Germany was quite silly. The small standing army had nothing to offer Hitler's war machine.

Except for one thing.

As queen, Elsa was implicitly recognized to be the highest commander of all Arendellan soldiers, making her a de facto part of the kingdom's armies. By pledging to send her military to Wehrmacht's aid, she was pledging herself.

And that was worth more than any army on earth.

She stares at her hands. So pale and slender, unmarred by any sort of manual labor, classically feminine.

No one would ever guess what they were capable of.

The Nazis would immediately demand her assistance on the Eastern Front, of course, where the Soviet Union that Hitler had called a "rotting structure" was not collapsing as easily as expected.

Elsa runs a hand through her dripping hair.

Would the Germans just use her to clear obstacles from roads, freeze wounds, and create water for soldiers?

Or would they demand she take a direct role in fighting?

Is she really capable of taking another human life?

She has not used her powers to harm anyone since Weselton's men had tried to murder her on the North Mountain, all those years ago.

Despite all this recent talk of myths and Norse deities, a quote from the Bible is what comes to mind, spoken in the voice of her old tutor, a stern, stick-like man who normally spoke quietly, but boomed like a cannon when reciting scripture.

_A time to kill, and a time to heal._

The queen gazes east, past Norway and Sweden, past Finland.

To Russia.

She's spent a long time trying to heal.

* * *

Roger Cartwright flicks his burning cigar over the railing of Arendelle palace, watching as it strikes the foundation stones of the palace in the harbor below and then bounces into the choppy waves.

As he leans back and closes his eyes, a salty breeze washing over him, he wonders what superior or gods he's inadvertently pleased that affected his assignment to this peaceful, idyllic little northern kingdom.

A bit boring sometimes, certainly, but lounging around a palace, cooking a few meals per day, and flirting with the kitchen girls is far preferable to baking in the North African sun or dodging the Gestapo in Berlin.

He'd been dispatched to Arendelle just days after German tanks rolled into Norway. Under the name Phillip Johansson, he'd joined the queen's staff posing as a Norwegian refugee fleeing the Nazi occupation. It had not been too difficult, Arendelle's security was quite lax compared to the rest of Europe, and the notoriously kind Queen Elsa had employed hundreds of Norwegians across the kingdom in the months following Germany's invasion.

Fluent Norwegian and culinary skills left over from a failed foray into cooking as a youth had easily allowed Roger to pass as a chef.

And just like that, Great Britain had its eyes and ears in the Witch-Queen's court.

The British had foreseen the Germans attempting to make an ally of Arendelle from the very beginning, same as they had during the previous war, so a spy to monitor the political going-ons of the kingdom had been a natural step.

As it turned out, not much of note happened in Arendelle. Elsa rarely left her chambers, and when she did it was only for solitary walks about the courtyard, or visitations to her sister's grave.

On certain nights, Roger had heard pained weeping coming from the queen's room.

But that was not his concern.

So he had decided to simply sit back and enjoy the weather, the people, and the seclusion of this fabled little state. A swim in the fjord now and then, a trip to Arendelle's unspoiled forests. He was practically being paid to vacation.

Then today had come.

"Open the gates!"

Roger snaps out of his relaxed stupor at the sound of shouting, quickly pushing his windswept hair back into place and rushing back into the castle.

Opening the gates is certainly an uncommon occurrence these days, and no important visitors are expected, as far as he knows.

_Shit!_

He barely stifles his curse as he reaches the courtyard, and realizes at last who these visitors are.

Nine men stand around the old fountain.

Germans, SS.

He quickly profiles the highest ranked member of the little squad, a tall, fairly young man with strong, angular features and dark brown hair, identified by the marks on his collar as an Obersturmbannführer.

Nobody Roger remembers from files or briefings.

Slightly strange, as he would expect someone more noteworthy (not to mention of higher rank) to meet with a foreign monarch.

Though understandable, if Berlin wishes to keep this conference a secret.

"What the hell are they doing here?"

Roger jumps, having been too engrossed in observing the new arrivals to notice one of the servant girls sidling up alongside of him.

She scowls and spits in the general direction of the foreigners, though immediately straightens up and feigns innocence when one of them looks her way.

Roger shrugs, pulling another cigar from his coat and lighting it up with trembling hands.

"I don't know, Maria" he replies.

That was a lie, of course, like half the things that have come out of his mouth for the past year.

They are here for the same reason they were here in 1915.

As the Germans push past him and Maria into the palace, and the Obersturmbannführer regards him with hard, grey eyes, Roger only hopes the queen will rebuff them as coldly as she did the Kaiser years before.

No such luck.

A few hours later, his worst fears are confirmed, as the queen escorts the Nazi delegate out of her palace, the latter beaming and gushing uncontrollably about "the newfound friendship between our two countries".

Later than night, Roger casts one last, longing look at the castle that has been his home for a year, before slipping away to the docks, carrying with him the most vital intelligence possessed by any British agent on the continent.

Pity, he was really starting to like one of those kitchen girls, too.

* * *

**_CLASSIFIED_**

**_OPERATION FREYJA _**

**_ADDRESSED TO REICHSFÜHRER-SS HEINRICH HIMMLER_**

_I am overjoyed to report that my negotiations with her Majesty Queen Elsa were a success, and that Arendelle has officially entered the war as an ally of Germany! I have requested that she reside in Berlin for the duration of the war, simply as I believe it would be far easier for my men to provide her security and prevent interference by British or Soviet agents. She seems understandably reluctant to leave her kingdom, though I'm certain I can convince her that it will be perfectly safe in the hands of one of our governors while she is away. I am certain that you will want to meet her as soon as possible, and I will do everything in my power to arrange such a meeting at everyone's earliest convenience. I leave the decision on when to inform the Führer in your hands._

_One more thing; the thought has crossed my mind that with Haakon fled to Britain, perhaps we should appoint Elsa as queen of all Norway? She would certainly be a better choice than this fool Quisling that we are considering now._

_Just a thought. _

_Heil Hitler!_

* * *

**_Again, thanks to everyone who's reviewed, followed, and favorited! I'm glad to write something that people like!_**


	4. 1000 Miles Away

**Sorry for the rather long wait between updates...I'm a bit lazy.**

* * *

Winter sinks its dread teeth into Russia, pouring snow from the heavens and piling it up into great mountains of frost. Tank tracks grind and stall as they attempt to push through the great banks of white powder, and in the German armies' wakes lie the corpses of those who could march on no more, their mud-caked limbs and faces turned blue-black by the savage cold.

A detachment of the 2nd SS Panzer Divison Das Reich pushes through western Russia in rough column formation, armor leading the charge through fire, death, and ice, trailed by hundreds of men on foot.

Somewhere over the horizon, the object of this arduous campaign beckons, begging for destruction. The degenerate Bolshevist beast's rotting heart.

Moscow.

Johann Buhler slogs through a thick, freezing sludge, the product of half-melted snow merging with copious amounts of mud.

His boots are absolutely soaked, feet immersed in dirty, freezing water, limbs refusing to obey the brain's commands any longer.

Every now and again, he casts a longing look towards one of the bulky Panzers rumbling slowly through heavy snows.

The crews _must _be at least a bit warmer in there…

At least in comparison to Johann and his comrades outside, who have only the standard issue Waffen-SS boots and jackets, practically rotting off of their backs at this point, and the black stahlhelm emblazoned with twin lightning bolts, which grows so cold in this weather it all but freezes to the scalp.

But at least they are still alive.

An easy campaign was the expectation. The Judeo-Bolshevik ruled monstrosity that called itself the Soviet Union could not withstand the might of Hitler's war machine for long.

Humans have a tendency to set expectations a bit too high.

The Russians make them pay in gallons of blood for every inch of ground they've taken, fighting with an almost superhuman ferocity. The Führer may designate them subhuman, but one cannot help to admire their tenacity and warrior's spirit.

It doesn't matter, though.

This is Deutschland's destiny.

The _Herrenvolk _cannot languish forever within the constricting, artificial borders allotted to them by the allied victors of the Great War.

Germany will take the land it needs for the continued survival of its people, and if other peoples must suffer and die to secure their destiny, than so be it.

Johann thinks of his family back home, in a little Hessian farm town along a nameless creek.

They lost everything in the Great War, fields and home destroyed by artillery and looted by the advancing western armies. It will take years to rebuild.

His father died in 1916, courtesy of Russian shell, and his mother took her own life some eleven years after.

He is left behind alone to protect and provide for the three youngest children his parents left behind.

Maria, Henrik, Christine, he does this for them.

He will give them a future beyond tending cows, and fending off starvation each winter.

If he must march through this frozen hell for his family and his homeland, then fine. In the end, it will all be worth it.

Doesn't mean he has to like it, though.

A bank of snow covered trees looms up on the advancing division's left, and he instinctively pulls closer to one of the big tanks for protection, scanning the pines for any sort of movement.

_Perfect for an ambush._

Johann licks his lips, a tight knot winding up in his stomach, fingers digging into the grip of his MP40.

"What do you want to do when we get home?" he asks the man marching ahead of him, desperate to take his mind from the war, if only for a moment.

The soldier turns, mouth open to deliver an answer, and then a round whistles through the air and his head explodes in a burst of brilliant red gore and bits of shattered helmet.

"Sniper!"

Johann hits the ground without thinking, cheek pressed to freezing mud, terrified eyes searching the tree line for a Russian sharpshooter.

_Shit! Shit!_

The slow moving German column roars to life, pines burn as a barrage of tank shells impact the ridge of trees, and the thick, pungent smell of scorched wood soon hangs heavy over the battlefield. Soldiers dive for cover, poking their steel-clad heads out from behind the rocks and armor that serve as impromptu fortifications to lay down suppressive fire in the sniper's general direction.

Men charge down from the ridge, shouting curses in Russian, and machinegun bullets pour out from behind tree trunks, ripping the extremities from German infantry in gruesome splashes of crimson.

Johann lays on his side, back to the tracks of a Panzer IV, rocks digging into his ribs, right side of his face still held tight against the ground, cheek quickly assuming a dull blue color as the cold takes its toll.

His jacket is soaked so thoroughly he might as well be sitting in a river, and he is pressed so hard to the freezing earth that it would be no surprise were he to sink right through.

Three feet above him, the SS and its partisan enemies trade hundreds of bullets across the thin strip of land separating the German column from the Russian assailants.

If he makes any move to rise, he'll be cut down, either by enemy fire or that of his fellow soldiers.

Above him, the tank's turret booms, a shell whistles through the air and consumes six Russians in a flash of orange flames.

The tank spits another blast of fire towards the partisans, the shell ripping away a rifleman's upper torso before it even explodes, and immolating two women manning a light machine gun in the ensuing detonation.

Bullets bounce back harmlessly from the panzer's thick steel, missing Johann only thanks to the graces of sheer luck.

Luck won't last for long.

Stuck between the hulking vehicle and enemy guns, he'll be dead within the next few minutes unless he moves.

But there is no opening, and the streams of bullets show no signs of running dry.

He unclips one grenade from his belt.

Then another.

Quickly priming both, he hurls the explosives with all the strength he can muster into his tired body.

Both roll to a stop before a bank of snow concealing three Russian fighters. They scramble backwards, desperate to escape the impending blast, abandoning their weapons, and for just a moment, the rattle of machinegun fire ebbs away.

Johann jumps to his feet and sprints off, desperate to get to the other side of the tank.

His boots dig into the mud, hampering his flight.

Just as he turns to round the panzer's glacis, he stumbles, hands flying out to cushion his fall.

Up on the ridge, a young boy with a Mosin-Nagant takes careful aim.

Johann struggles to his feet again, bracing himself against the panzer's steel flank.

_Crack!_

It's like someone's swung a lead pipe into his neck.

He crumples to the ground, blood pumping from his ruined throat with the perfect rhythm of a heartbeat.

Johann takes a few short ragged breaths, the field-gray of his tunic rapidly giving way to a deep crimson as the grievous wound empties itself onto the SS uniform.

He stares up towards the darkened skies , a reflection of grey Russian clouds dancing in his bright green eyes.

Snow falls again, and the few flakes that find their way onto his tongue taste impossibly sweet.

When he was younger he and Maria would rush out into the winter cold as soon as the first snowfall of winter greeted them, against their mother's worried admonitions, and collect snowflakes that way.

Will she be proud of him? What about Henrik and Christine?

Will Henrik want to be a soldier, just like his big brother?

The shouts of his comrades and foes alike begin to fade away, along with the roar of howitzer and gunfire.

Johann curls his arms and legs inwards, in a futile attempt to warm himself.

_It's so fucking cold…_

One more breath.

The hungry specter of war reaches out its ancient, crooked fingers for him.

Such is life in Soviet Russia.

* * *

The fat, bone-white winter moon sits high in the heavens, bathing the city in eerie, pallid light, and casting flickering shadows through the blinds and across Elsa's walls.

She whips the curtains open, azure eyes surveying the streets several stories below, bright with the glow of headlights and lampposts.

It's been four days since she arrived in Berlin, greeted by massive crowds, curiously chomping at the bit to get a look at Germany's newest ally.

Four hundred men of the SS were barely able to keep back the floods of humanity that filled Lehrter Bahnhof.

To Elsa, who grew quite accustomed to the rural tranquility of her little backwater kingdom over the years, Berlin was like an explosion of modernity.

The blonde is still not used to the absolute cacophony of Germany's nerve center.

Automobiles rush across the great city, traveling upon the newly built autobahns commissioned by the Führer himself, roads that would one day connect the Reich's farthest corners to Berlin, as in the Roman Empire of old.

Throngs of humanity, hundreds strong, fill the streets, heading to offices, restaurants, cinemas, or any number of destinations scattered throughout the sprawling metropolis.

It's all enough to make the queen a bit woozy.

The Nazis have set her up in the Hotel Adlon, an old 19th century structure overlooking the Pariser Platz, with a clear view of the Brandenburg gate.

It's all quite nice, she must admit.

Her bed is probably the largest she's ever slept on, despite growing up quite literally as a princess.

Last night, in a fit of curiosity, Elsa forged five sculpted, androgynous human figures from ice and snow, ordering them to lie across the mattress side by side.

She was quite impressed when her chain of clones barely stretched from one end of the bedspread to the next.

The room's radio was set to a News and Propaganda station upon her arrival, but Elsa decided Adolf Hitler's ranting was not particularly conductive to a good night's rest, and so immediately tuned it to a classical music station, where it remained.

A freshly polished, compact little bookshelf about three feet tall sits tucked away in the corner, stocked with about fifty or so various titles, including a couple of heavily biased history volumes she spent the better part of this week perusing, and of course; _Mein Kampf._

The Hotel's SS presence, though already heavy thanks to the Adlon's high value clientele, has increased tenfold since the queen's stay began.

Two soldiers keep a perpetual vigil outside her doors, impressively managing hours of statuesque stillness per day, the only hint of movement being the twitch of their eyes tracking any suspicious passerby, and the curt nods they offer Elsa when she leaves her room for a breath of fresh air or a drink at the ground floor lounge.

Of course, not all of her guardian angels are quite so conspicuous. Last night she noticed with amusement a small luger strapped to the cleaning girl's thigh.

Hell, half the staff is probably SS and Gestapo.

Elsa collapses onto the bed, eyes fixed on the ghostly shape of the moon, half-hidden behind wispy clouds and the artificial horizon of Berlin's skyline.

She reaches for the radio, pale, slender fingers fiddling with the knobs, switching stations, forgoing Beethoven and Wagner for broadcasts of a more martial variety.

"-ave struck another decisive blow against Soviet forces, simply the latest in a long string of victories won by our valiant armies. The Bolsheviks retreat further into Russia, and it is expected German soldiers will occupy Moscow in just days."

She must roll her eyes at the announcer's hearty, confident tone, and at his announcement itself.

Were the eastern war going so swimmingly in reality, she wouldn't be here.

The radio chatter fades into a steady, lulling buzz, and her eyelids begin to slip shut.

For a moment, Elsa considers exchanging her dress for nightclothes, but before she can act on the thought, sleep grabs hold of her and consciousness slips away.

The next thing she registers is a voice whispering in her ear.

"Hey. Hey. Elsa. C'mon. Get up."

The blonde's eyes slide open to the sight of Anna leaning over her, strawberry blonde braids hanging down to tickle Elsa's face, lips pulled into a mischievous grin.

Except not really, because this is just a dream, and one that torments her all too often.

The princess takes a seat at the foot of the bed, and it hurts, because she's so close, but Elsa knows better than to touch her.

This phantom is a perfect impression of her sister. They always are. The bright, cheerful teal eyes set in her round, girlish face, a smattering of freckles across her adorable button nose and cheeks, those plump, strawberry red lips.

_Why can't I give you a warm hug?_

But every time Elsa tried to reach out for that hug, or to hold her hand, or even just to feel the warmth of her skin, Anna vanished like mist.

So she can only drink in her features, on certain occasions, talk, and curse the fact that this dream has to end.

"H-hi Anna."

Anna's head darts about, taking in her modern surroundings.

"This is a nice city, isn't it?"

"Yes…you know, you've been here before."

"Really?"

Elsa nods.

"Yes…we visited Rapunzel here once, don't you remember?"

The princess rises from the bed and presses her face against the window, absorbing the 20th century's sights and sounds.

"Well…it's definitely changed a lot!"

The queen smiles lovingly.

"It's been a hundred years."

Anna's head whips around, her sea-blue eyes lighting up.

"That long?"

Elsa brings a hand to her throat, choking back tears.

"Yes…I still miss you, you know? Every day."

The strawberry blonde frowns, drifting back to the bed, plopping herself down next to the older girl.

Anna's hand slides dangerously close to her sister's.

_Still no touching, Elsa._

"Well…don't miss me. I'm here now!"

"But you're not here! Not…not really. And…and that's why I'm here."

Her younger sibling's mouth twitches into a grimace.

"Why are you helping _them_?"

She spits the word "them" out like something nasty, and Elsa recognizes her own conscience moralizing in the form of Anna.

"For…for yo-. For her."

_This isn't Anna, not really._

Once she realizes this, her sister's mannerisms melt away, leaving simply the harsh, judgmental voice of Elsa's subconscious.

"So do you believe in Germany's cause?"

"Are they any worse than the Soviets they're fighting?"

"Is that the best you can say for them? That perhaps they are no worse than another nation? What happened to you? You used to have morals, standards! The girl who ran away to the North Mountain to avoid harming anyone in her kingdom, the girl who sacrificed everything, who spent her youth shut away for the sake of others' safety. Would she ally herself with a gang of power-hungry, murdering criminals, just for the sake of one per-"

"_Shut up!_ You're right! My entire life has been one long bloody, barbaric sacrifice! I've never done a damn thing for me! Every moment has been dedicated to others! And you want to try to shame me because I want my sister back? Because for once, for once in a hundred and twenty years I want to be a little selfish? Go to hell!"

Elsa bolts up in bed, warm tears staining her pale, red tinged cheeks, heart beating like a war drum, entire body trembling.

The room is empty, her ragged breathing the only sound to break this heavy silence.

Alone again.

* * *

**By the way, if you ever have any suggestions, anything to point out, etc. Please do.**


	5. Once Upon a Time

_**So...I know it seems kind of disjointed and all over the place right now but I swear I'm totally going somewhere with this.**_

* * *

_**United States of America-November 2014**_

_**14\. What was Nazi Germany's main motive for pursuing an alliance with Queen Elsa I of Arendelle?**_

_**A.**_ _**To use her as the springboard of a new, nationalistic religion for the German people, based around old Teutonic and Norse myth, eventually meant to supplant Christianity.**_

_**B.**_ _**To utilize her cryokinetic abilities in Germany's war against the Soviet Union and Britain.**_

_**C.**_ _**To implement her power as a more efficient and cost effective method of carrying out the Reich's extermination campaign, while freeing up men and resources to serve on the front.**_

_**D.**_ _**All of the above.**_

Fuck.

Uh….

Scott Parker trawls the deep recesses of his mind for information he's surely absorbed over the last four weeks of AP European History. Unfortunately, the fifteen-year old can find nothing there but memories of football in the park last weekend, and 5 AM _Apocalypse Online _matches with that prick Connor.

He taps his foot restlessly against the speckled, faux-granite linoleum floor, casting his eyes across the various wall maps and cheap reproductions of famed portraits that grace the cream-colored history classroom walls. Unfortunately, he finds nothing that might offer him even a nudge in the right direction with regards to this particular question.

An attempt to glance over the shoulder of Michael Cohen is thwarted by his burly, linebacker's build, and Maria Petroski has an irritating habit of covering schoolwork with her sleeve.

Mr. Madero always has his AC turned up too damn high. No need to learn about it-this room practically _is_ Arendelle half the time.

A few key phrases fly by here and there; _Fall of Moscow,Operation Götterdammerung, the march to Berlin, Ismakt, zerschmettern der kreuze…_nothing the sophomore can connect in any meaningful way.

To hell with it.

His pencil glides across crisp, white test paper, scratching a rough circle around "D".

Maybe he'll get lucky.

Filled with apprehension, Scott's eyes flicker down to the next question.

_**15\. What is the estimated number of casualties usually attributed to Elsa's "Winter of Nations"?**_

_**A.**_ _**30 million**_

_**B.**_ _**89 million**_

_**C.**_ _**220 million**_

_**D.**_ _**100 million**_

Scott reaches out and taps his pencil against Samantha Freeman's desk.

The blonde turns to face him, aggravated aquamarine eyes magnified by her wide-rimmed wire spectacles.

"What?" she mouths.

Scott shoots a glance towards Madero's desk, satisfied that the old man is too busy with last class's papers to pay his academic dishonesty any attention.

"Number 15…the answer?" he whispers back.

"Study, asshole" she scowls, but then rolls her eyes and relents; "It's C".

Scott marks down his answer and sucks in a deep breath of still-too-goddamn-cold air.

Next question.

He turns his eyes upwards towards the heavens-or rather, the flare of fluorescent lighting set into sterile white roof tiles.

_Fuck you, Elsa._

_First you depopulate Eastern Europe, and now you get me an F on this shit test._

_Worst person in history._

* * *

_**Arendelle-1846**_

Elsa watches from her balcony with a deep satisfaction the dozens of ships rocking gently in Arendelle harbor's glittering waters. A veritable rainbow of banners from every corner of Europe and beyond flutters in the gentle mountain breeze, along with the queen's hair, liberated from its usual braided state, allowed to cascade gently down her back and fall across those sparkling blue eyes.

She still wears the silky, violet dress chosen for a meeting with French dignitaries hours before. The corset bites into her ribs, and the shoulder straps are a bit constricting, but the picturesque air of Arendelle at sunset has rendered her too lazy to alleviate either of those issues.

On the horizon, the sun is slowly devoured by the North Sea, its dying light casting a brilliant red glow across the white-capped waves.

Elsa could make a move to clear the tangle of blonde locks from her vision, but that would require disturbing the absolute perfection of this moment.

Instead, she decides to make a game of identifying ships' flags through the obstructing curtain of her own hair.

_There's France…Britain…Britain again…is that a French flag upside down? No…that would be Russia. Denmark…Prussia…Austria._

A smile teases at the corners of her lips.

It seems every nation from Lisbon to Moscow has come to visit her!

And from the corner of her eye, she even spots the thirteen stripes and star-filled blue canton of the United States' ensign.

This is the way it was, once.

Before Arendelle shut itself off to the world.

The nation's economy suffered, as of course it would, with all trade excepting a few nations ceasing completely.

For over a decade, the only foreign flags permitted to fly in Arendelle's waters were those of Sweden-Norway, Denmark, Weselton, and of course, the Southern Isles.

But Elsa rectified that as soon as possible.

Goods and tradesmen will flow into her kingdom again, along with those curious souls anxious to see a display of Elsa's power.

Arendelle overflows with workers, scholars, priests, and the simply bored.

Two weeks ago she took her first public tour through the city-square, accompanied by Anna and a detachment of thirteen or so guards.

How silly it was to think that would be enough.

Though really, who could expect the horde of jubilant, furious, adoring, hateful foreigners and locals alike that immediately descended upon the royals?

"My brother died in your winter you goddamned sorceress!" An ashen-faced, emaciated hunter in furs screamed.

"Is it true what they say, your grace? Can you really heal the sick?" asked a petite brunette in a thick German accent.

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!" a particularly boisterous, pudgy fellow with rosy cheeks and a thinning shock of grey-brown hair shouted.

"You are surely anointed by god!"

"Highness!"

"Witch!"

"Lovely!"

"Monster!"

"Goddess!"

That last one made her stop a bit short, honestly.

In the end, soldiers had safely dispersed the incredibly opinionated mass of humanity at the point of bayonets, fortunately managing to abstain from spilling innocent blood onto Arendellan cobblestones.

Despite the incident's peaceful resolution, it made uncomfortably clear to Elsa the wide of range of reactions she inspired, simply by existing.

She tries to focus on the good, like the respected religious scholars throughout the continent postulating the northern queen and her powers might be a gift to mankind from God himself, whose holy purpose would become clear soon enough. Or the way she lights up the faces of children on the streets when they catch sight of her walking through the palace gardens and relaxing on the balcony. Pure glee. Real magic! Then she might delight them with a blast of frost, or a companion of snow and ice to join in their games.

Yes, it is better to concentrate on that, not the minorities in Prussia and Corona calling for war, or the dozens of slanderous pamphlets spreading like plague from one major city of Europe to the next.

Like a particular Scottish booklet that had elected to mince no words when it called her "A bitch of the devil."

_Always see the good things in the world._

"Hey…"

Anna's soft voice drifts to Elsa on the evening breezes.

She turns to the princess, back to the glimmering ocean. Her lips part in a smile, at last she sweeps the hair from her eyes,

The good things, like her sister.

"Hey."

Anna twirls a strawberry braid between her dainty fingers, and the siblings turn their gazes up to the heavens in silence as night bursts forth from behind the North Mountain, fanning out to envelop the land.

The sun completes its retreat, orange fire finally extinguished beneath the waves.

A small coil of worry winds itself up in Elsa's stomach.

Having her sister back has been...marvelous. But behind all the joy and excitement of their sudden reunion, Elsa feels there is still something there. After all, one cannot simply wipe away those thirteen years.

"Anna…are you happy?"

Anna twists her brow into a puzzled knot.

"Wha...of course I am!"

Elsa takes a deep breath, casting a sparkling eye out towards the darkened sea.

"I know I still have a lot to make up to you, and..."

The younger girl socks Elsa in the shoulder lightly.

"Stop it. No you don't, okay?"

"I just mean…all those years. I know I hurt you and-"

"But that's…that's over now. It's done. Gone."

"No...I wish I could just bring back all that missed time, give you a normal life, bu-"

"Look…you're right. You can't rewind time. But that's okay, because we're here now" Anna's arms slide around her sister's waist, her into a tight embrace. "We're still young, and there's still lots of time for both of us, okay? Besides...you're better than normal."

The princess rests her head against the flawless, fair skin of Elsa's chest, the queen's gentle, rhythmic heartbeat throbbing against her cheek.

Elsa's lips curl up into an affectionate grin.

"Really?"

Anna's freckled face lights up with a smile of her own, the stars glittering in her teal eyes.

"Yeah…queens are a dime a dozen. But queens that are basically the Michelangelo of Ice? With magic? Now that's special...you're special."

"I'm not special, I'm j-"

Anna disentangles her arms from the other girl's waist and steps back, gesturing to the snow-capped Arendellan peaks with her right hand, and to the fjord's darkness shrouded, inky waters with her left.

"Yes you are! You are the greatest queen in Europe! Ruler of this mighty Empire!"

Elsa giggles.

"Arendelle's hardly a mighty empire, Anna."

"Not yet…but look at all those ships down there! They all want to be our friends, yeah? And the people…they love you! I should know, I send castle staff down there all the time to keep an eye on those unruly peasants."

She pauses.

"…That…that was a joke."

Elsa presses her lips gently to her sister's soft, red-tinged cheek.

"Yeah, I know."

* * *

_**West Prussia-1923**_

"So it was me, and twenty other Germans beside, against…oh…seventy or so Americans."

Frederick chuckles, left hand scratching his long, unkempt mustache, the right slamming a half-emptied bottle of beer onto the dining room table.

Dieter winces at the impact, casting an annoyed glance in his older brother's direction.

"We sent them running…yes we did."

Dieter turns back to his book, but finds reading unable to coexist with Frederick's impossibly loud storytelling.

"There was this one bastard…real saucy. I was…I was gracious enough not to shoot him on sight, and you know how he repays me? He spits in my fucking face. Well…when my bayonet came out the other side of his head, there was a nice, long strip of brain hanging from the tip."

At the other end of the table, Dieter's sister Erika scowls, shoving away her bowl of soup with a clatter.

"Thank you…Frederick, for your lovely dinner time conversation."

He sneers.

"I thought you liked my war stories, sister dear."

She narrows her cinereous eyes at him, jaw tightened.

"Are you even going to eat, or just drink? Did I boil this for nothing?"

Erika slaps the rim of her bowl, its contents threatening to leap out onto the table.

Dieter sinks as low into his seat as he possibly can, though vanishing is no easy feat in the Kaufmann family's cramped countryside residence. Outside, the wind excites itself into a howl, sweeping through the woods and over farmlands like a screeching phantom.

Elizabeth, second youngest offspring of the family, meekly nibbles on a piece of bread beside Dieter, hoping as much as her ten-year old brother to be left out of their older siblings' squabbling.

"Yes…" Erika goes on. "I liked your stories before I realized the war was fucking lost, and living it again and again does nothing for any of us."

Frederick grinds his teeth, running a hand through his long, grimy hair.

"We…we didn't lose the war. We…we…"

"Didn't you? I think your arm says otherwise."

He pulls back the sleeve of his filthy, cotton jacket.

A long, ugly scar winds its way around his forearm and up to the junction of his shoulder, like an ashen-color valley carved from human flesh.

Erika's hands fly to her mouth, and she squeezes her eyes shut.

Weak, flickering candlelight dances over Frederick's grim features.

"Does it? Shut the fuck up. We didn't lose…at least not in battle. We were betrayed. Betrayed by fucking traitorous cowards here at home. The ones who threw out the Kaiser and rushed to suck the allies' cocks as soon as they could get their mouths around them. You really think we-you really think _I _would lose to a horde of Frenchmen? Or British, for that matter? Hmm?"

Erika locks eyes with her older brother, the frustration in them now mingled with a heavy dose of fear.

A semi-open window rattles as a cold, autumn draft sweeps into the house. Dieter wraps his thin, bony arms around himself for warmth.

Outside, the trees whisper.

"Hey…Dieter…what are you reading."

Dieter wordlessly closes the heavy leather-bound volume, so his eldest brother might get a look at the title.

"_A History of the Civilizations of Europe"_ Frederick reads, in contemptuous imitation of an academic or public speaker.

"And…where did you get the money to buy that, Dieter? Seems like money that could have been put towards food other than our sister's…cooking."

"I…I spent nothing, I swear!" Dieter stammers, eyes wide. "The…the bookseller in town said I might have it free of charge."

Frederick nods, apparently satisfied with this explanation.

"That's nice…history is nice isn't it?"

The boy nods, cracking the volume open again.

"Dieter…tell me what that map is, yes?"

Dieter's eyes fall back to the book's pages, gliding across a map of the European continent and its caption, running underneath in tiny black lettering.

"A map of the Roman Empire at its Greatest Extent Under the Emperor Trajan."

Frederick smiles again, his tongue flicking out to retrieve a stray drop of beer from the hairs of his mustache.

"Ah…Rome. A mighty nation, wasn't she?"

"Yes!" he exclaims, delighted at the opportunity to share what he's learned. "The-"

"Yes, yes, whatever. Now, that map. You notice the Romans conquered nearly all of the continent, yes?"

Dieter licks his lips.

Nearly all of Europe is shaded a dark grey on the page, but the grey stops abruptly at the Rhine in the west, and the Danube in the south, daring to go no further.

A great expanse of unconquered territory, directly to the Empire's north and east.

"You notice that? Where the Romans would go? You don't think they left those lands be because the Emperor and his officials' lust for conquest suddenly disappeared, do you? So tell me, why is there a great big empty space in the middle of Europe, untouched by Rome?"

Dieter's mind draws a blank.

"I...I don't know."

"Well…tell me what country is there today?"

The ten-year old wastes no time in answering; "Germany."

Frederick leans back in his chair, a satisfied smirk plastered across his face.

"Exactly. The fucking Romans, with their pompous legions, pissed their pants and ran in terror from Germanic warriors. Oh they tried to fight, God bless them, they tried. But we killed them all, except the few we let run back to Italy to tell the rest exactly what happened to their comrades. Now, maybe you'll notice who the Romans _did _conquer. The French. The Spanish. The Portuguese. Romanians. Greeks. Turks. Even 'Great' Britain"

He laughs heartily and takes another sip from his beer, bursting with nationalistic pride.

"But not us. They fucking _feared _us. Because we are a ferocious, fighting race. We are a great nation, Dieter, just because Jewish, Bolshevik rats in Berlin cost us the last war, doesn't make it any less true. The world will learn the same lesson Varus and his men did. They want to humiliate us with that piece of shit they signed in Versailles. But they won't, because you cannot conquer conquerors. Understand?"

Eyes wide, Dieter nods slowly.

"Yes, I think I do."

* * *

**Again, I know it seems a bit all over the place. The main thing I wanted to do was...well, I realize I made 1940s Elsa a bit bitter and angry, so I wanted to visit her past and try to bridge the happier version of her we see at the end of the movie to the one in this story, so that's what I'm trying to do.**

**And also...a couple of people have been reading Elsanna into this. That's interesting.**


End file.
